


Adelaide 2010

by Agoodcaptain



Category: Cricket RPF
Genre: Ashes, Cookersen (implied), M/M, Origin Story, brinn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-26
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:48:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27721666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Agoodcaptain/pseuds/Agoodcaptain
Summary: Steven and Stuart, from the beginning.
Relationships: Jimmy Anderson/Alastair Cook, Stuart Broad/Steven Finn
Comments: 6
Kudos: 12





	1. Bangladesh to Brizzy

**Author's Note:**

> I referenced their origin story often enough and you guys wanted to hear it so since I'm stuck mid-chapter on my other Brinn fic: enjoy!

Steven Finn trusted his own judgement. He’d had to. He could look at a pitch and know how the ball would move, how it could deteriorate over time, how it might **_behave_**. Steve thought of himself as fairly perceptive with people too, he could read body language pretty well he thought; he knew when a batsman was still in a mood from losing their wicket earlier and not go near them, he knew when to stop messing about in training, just before their coaches went from amused to annoyed, and he thought he could tell what people thought of him. But then there was Stuart. Steve just never knew where he stood with Stuart; sometimes it felt like they were getting close, like they were becoming really good friends, or even- but then Stuart would go cold on him, appear distant when they talked, look past him in post-wicket celebrations and sometimes just ignore him. Steve found the whole thing so ~~heartbreaking~~ ~~infuriating~~ confusing.

Steve hadn’t been around the England team long, he had to remember that. It was less than a year since he made his debut – but he got on so well with everyone in the rest of the team, although Swanny was forever teasing him and sometimes it felt quite personal, and KP was… well he was always rubbing people up the wrong way. But for the most part, the team liked Steve and Steve liked them but he was never quite sure with Stuart and there was something about the blonde fast bowler that intrigued him, it felt somehow important for Steve to be sure, though he couldn’t explain why. 

There was a time, weeks even, when Steve really thought they might be building to… something. When Steve took a five-for at Lord’s, in his first domestic series, on his ground, at home, there was a moment. Playing at Lord’s is special for all cricketers, English or not, so Steve considered himself very lucky to play there on a regular basis for Middlesex but growing up half an hour down the road, he’d always imagined walking out onto the hallowed turf for a Test. Actually doing it was a kind of dizzy dream and then it all just clicked into place on the day. Steve watched as his name went up on the Honours’ Board, mouth unglamorously agape, when the workers left, Stuart appeared behind him, so close Steve could feel breath on his neck. He didn’t say anything apart from a barely audible “wow” but he put a hand on Steve’s shoulder and squeezed. Steve wanted so badly to turn around but he was afraid that if he did, the spell would be broken. They both stood there in silence for a good couple of minutes, taking in the majesty of the occasion. Steve was so pathetically happy in that moment, so proud of how far he’d come and thrilled for what might be still to come that he forgot his usual nerves around Stuart.

After that game, Steve would catch Stuart looking at him across the changing room or breakfast table but instead of being embarrassed, Stuart would smile at him and allow the moment to settle before looking away. The series continued at a frenetic pace and they didn’t spend much time together until the end of the Pakistan Tests. They were drinking in the Lord’s dressing room neither of them had grabbed headlines that series but they had done their work, and there was some home ground comfort bordering on cockiness to Steve, mixed in with the usual end-of-series celebratory giddiness. Steve started the staring for once, drank his beer and openly leered at Stuart. Soon, they were sat alongside each other, squished into a booth at some central London bar, Jimmy half-cut and slumped grinning against Alastair across from them. Stuart and Steve gave each other a lingering look, and Steve excused himself to go to the loo and steady himself, already envisioning the rest of the night: a torturously long taxi ride back to his flat not touching, grabbing at each other as soon as the door closed. Then when Steve got back to the table, it was empty. He soon found Ali trying to coax a determined Jimmy away from the bar but Stuart was nowhere to be seen. He saw Stuart the next day as he checked out of the hotel and he looked through Steve. Steve didn’t get picked for the Limited-Overs squad so he just went back home to county cricket and waited. Then began the New Cold War.

Steve hadn’t been counting on anything, not even after getting named Player of the Series earlier in the summer against Bangladesh. He was desperate to get picked and all his Middlesex teammates, his parents, his mates back home were needling him about getting selected but Steve refused to rise to it. “You never know,” he would say, remembering how his stomach dropped coming back to an empty table, you just never know. But the call came, he was in an Ashes squad, he was going to Australia. Away tours meant long training sessions, relentless hours in the gym, hotels and team activities – Stuart would have to see him. The thought of confronting him was terrifying to Steve, and he had never done anything like that before but there was that strange sense Steve had, unshakeable and solid, that there was something to be discovered about Stuart and that it should be him to discover it.

* * *

Steve tried to count off the things he was sure of, before he actually went mad: Steve and Stuart had a moment, several of them, those he hadn’t invented or imagined. Stuart was attracted to him… he was pretty confident of that too – he could recognise desire in another man’s eyes, not in a conceited way, he was just good at reading that, he’d had to be. But was Stuart out, even to himself? Steve wasn’t out – not like **_out_** out. His parents knew he was gay, his sister, a couple of mates from school, Tim and Sam at Middlesex but that was about it – he wasn’t being purposefully furtive exactly but he was a new international player, he was being careful.

The whole tour was a lot to deal with though - the flights, the jet lag, the training, the insane bloody heat, so Steve tried to push the whole Stuart thing out of his thoughts. But then he’d catch sight of Stuart stretching in the gym, abs teasingly poking out from underneath his shirt, or see him wipe sweat from his forehead on the field, or lick his lips as he glugged down water, and Steve would just about lose his damn mind. But soon enough there was a match to think about – an actual Test match in an actual Ashes series and Steve was picked in the team. Steve actually couldn’t wait to get on the field with Stuart, just like every time. Because he was never nervous playing cricket with Stuart, he loved it. He felt like he was the best version of himself, like he could be his calmest, truest self – that sounded stupid maybe, for a man he had only played cricket with for a few months but that’s how he felt. Stuart could set his heart racing with just a raised eyebrow across a packed team meeting but as soon as they stepped onto the field together, everything was calm; it felt right, everything just clicked.

The match played out like an Epic, with storylines and subplots, heroes and villains, twists and turns, and felt much longer than its five-day span. But real life isn’t a fairytale, and Test cricket is much closer to real life than its Limited-Over cousins, and in the end no really wins. So after Steve’s brilliant 6-125, and Alastair batting for days, perhaps inevitably, it was a draw. Steve knew he should be disappointed but he’d bowled well, really well, he was fired up, it felt like the start of something.

He’d almost forgot about the tension with Stuart, so much so that he didn’t notice that Stuart was out-waiting the rest of the team to corner Steve in the dressing room after Day 5. As soon as Steve looked up at Stuart, his energy seemed to drain; the magic, golden power that connected them on the field seemed to turn off like a barman telling its boisterous Saturday night crowd that it was Sunday morning now and they’d had their fun.

Stuart edged his way over to Steve, clearly hoping he’d think of inspired opening by the time he got there.  
“Well bowled,” he managed, as he sat down next to Steve.  
Steve sighed, disappointed although what else he was expecting Stuart to say, he wasn’t sure.  
Finally, Steve smiled weakly and replied, almost resigned, “Thanks.”  
“Reckon we could’ve won if Cookie hadn’t stayed in for four days, classic selfish batters.”  
Steve forced a chuckle and Steve went bright red in response. Usually Steve would’ve been nicer, but maybe the fatigue from bowling in the heat had finally won out; he’d been forcing a friendship or the pretence of one with Stuart since that night in the club and he was tired of the façade. He waited to see if Stuart would offer anything else but he was gripping tight onto the bench, chewing on his lip silently.  
Steve shrugged, and stood up, “Look they’re waiting on the bus, we should go.”  
“Wait,” Stuart jumped in.  
“What for?” Steve barked, harsher than he’d meant to but like he said, he was tired.  
“Erm, I just…” Stuart’s face was going even redder now, “I thought you might want a game of darts later, just the two of us.”  
This was clearly a big deal to Stuart but Steve was past patience, he’d waited long enough.  
“I can’t keep playing this game with you Stuart”  
“Alright, we’ll play something else, X-box or cards or-“  
“No I mean, this-“ Steve gestured between the two of them fruitlessly, moving away from irritated now, and just sounding defeated, “Whatever this is, or **_was_** , I can’t keep- I’m sorry Broady but I’m exhausted.”  
Stuart winced, Steve never called him Broady, or at least never when they were alone, it felt like a line in the sand. Stuart blinked away hot tears, and looked up at Steve, gulping for air, searching for words, and finding nothing.  
Steve took a breath, then looking levelly back at Stuart, not looking past him but almost through him, said simply and without venom, “I know who I am, Stuart. Do you?”  
With those words, Steve grabbed his stuff and headed for the door, leaving Stuart alone in the Gabba, the heat gone from the day now, and the evening chill already beginning.


	2. And then there was Adelaide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stuart and Steve's tension comes to a head after the team win in Adealaide

_I know who I am, Stuart. Do you?_

The words reverberated through Stuart’s head over and over; whenever he had a quiet moment, standing in front of the coffee machine in the morning waiting for his cup to fill, or as he rested between sets in the gym, as he turned at the top of his mark in the nets. Stuart would shake his head to push the thought out but the question lingered: did he? Stuart tried to cling to what he knew for sure about himself – he was a cricketer, but how long would that last? Fast bowlers weren’t known for their longevity and he was one bad injury away from losing his career. He was Notts through and through, he knew that much. But even then, he was born in Leicester, and Swanny was always teasing him for being far too posh to properly be from Nottingham, like he could talk with his indistinct Midlands accent and Newcastle shirts. No matter what Steve might think he knew too that he was gay, not many other people did, but he had – after some painful soul-searching – admitted it to himself. The only other person that knew was his sister Gemma, or he should say the only other person alive. He’d come out to his stepmum Miche when she was very ill, partly because he felt like he owed her the truth, but partly because selfishly he could get a release of telling her without worrying about the secret getting any further. Miche had been great about it of course; she was that kind of a person, so wholly good, much nicer than Stuart was. She had only been gone less than six months and the loss still smarted, but much like too many things in his life, Stuart pushed the feeling down.

Steve seemed to have drawn a line under the matter anyway. He wasn’t ignoring Stuart or anything; no he was too mature for that childish tactic Stuart had employed ever since that night in London. Instead, Steve was polite. He looked Stuart in the eye when they spoke, smiled and said “Good Morning” as they met, basically the way a classy person would treat a waiter, or a colleague you weren’t close to; nice, engaged on the surface but not really uninterested. The whole thing was a knife to Stuart’s stomach and honestly he’d probably prefer the silent treatment. Had he totally blown it? Well, how could he not have? Back in London, he was minutes away from having everything he had wanted since he had laid eyes on Steve, or at least since he had met him. Stuart had seen him around the county circuit, thought he was cute but well out of Stuart’s league. Then they met in the England squad, and a bolt went through Stuart as they shook hands, like a small but definite electric shock – a warning for him to pay attention.

As always, the outside world had no care for Stuart’s inner turmoil, and the tour rolled on to Adelaide. It was hotter there than Brisbane or at least felt like it; maybe it was the humidity. Either way, Stuart couldn’t cope. And if Steve flicked his hair back between balls at nets one more time, or hitched his shorts up onto his hips as he walked out of the changing room, well Stuart might just expire like a Victorian maiden with bad nutrition and not enough light.

* * *

The second Test had a grand, stirring, historical feel to it once again. Ali and KP batting and batting for what felt like weeks, Trotty too - heroes standing tall in the heat. Stuart should’ve been watching, there to bear witness, or else taking time out to relax. Usually he’d be having a kip, or slurping endless cups of tea and bugging Jimmy by pretending to help with the crossword. Instead, Stuart was fidgety and anxious, pacing the dressing room until Matty sent him out for creating bad energy, packing and repacking his kit, and above all staring at the back of Steve’s head. Matty let him back in the room as long as he promised to sit still, and cocked his head concerned as Stuart settled on the bench, “You alright mate?”  
Stuart nodded tightly, “Just nerves.”  
Matty smiled kindly, “You’re going to wear yourself out before the second dig. Ease up.”  
Stuart signalled his assent and picked up a nearby newspaper, staring at it, not taking anything in.  
He felt bad about not being honest with Matt, who had been there for him, through all his family stuff, all his career worries but he was a long way off being sure of himself; about what he was feeling or at least what he was going to do about it. He didn’t want to air it out; he wasn’t keen on letting reason and logic come into it, or at least not yet.

Stuart knew he’d have to get out of his head somehow though, because as the team marched surely toward victory, he bowled tightly, economically but couldn’t find that edge, that x-factor. As Swanny worked the ball, finding turn and magic off the pitch, and Steve bagged a couple of wickets of his own, Stuart couldn’t quite let go, and bowl with the complete freedom that suited him best. But when the win was near, so close they could all taste it, feel it deep within them like butterflies before a first date, he was genuinely swept up in the great emotion of the day.

* * *

They gravitated from the ground to town, to mingle with the England fans – and drink. Stuart had never been comfortable being in the public eye, he went red whenever he was interviewed and his voice went high and posh, and he was always afraid of disappointing fans when he met them. It might have been the win, it might have been the beer already consumed in the dressing room but Stuart was feeling relaxed for the first time in ~~days~~ , ~~weeks~~ months. Okay, it was definitely the beer. Stuart was certainly well oiled, with the alcohol easing off the hard edges, and the win doing the rest. Stuart laughed and chatted with the Barmy Army, took sneaky shots with Swanny, joked with Jimmy and Ali and allowed himself what he hoped were sneaky glances at Steve. And maybe it was the beer, but it seemed like Steve was glancing right back. Okay, he didn’t think this was the beer.

A few days ago, he couldn’t have imagined being stuck to Steve’s side in a taxi back to the hotel with Jimmy asleep on his other side and sensible Ali up front, making polite small talk with the grumpy driver who had nothing but loathing for them all. But a few days ago, he couldn’t have imagined winning an Ashes Test, and what it would feel like to celebrate it with his teammates, his friends, with Steve. Stuart spent the ride back listening to Steve and Ali chat away to each other, to the driver and to him without taking much in while silently rehearsing in his head what he would say when they got out. As they walked into the hotel, he made it seem casual enough: one more drink at the hotel bar? Ali and Steve agreed but Jimmy, slumped on Ali’s shoulder and drooling, was done for the night. Ali said he’d help Jimmy to his room then meet them, but like the caring friend he was, he never came back downstairs.

Steve and Stuart sipped their beers circumspectly in the near empty bar, eyeing each other, not uninterested but careful.  
“This is the longest we’ve been alone since… for a while,” Stuart began cautiously.  
Steve drained some more of his beer, and feigned a casual air, “Has it?”  
“You know it has. And I know why. I know it’s me… I don’t blame… I would hate me too.”  
“Stu, I don’t hate you, it’s so far from that, that’s the problem.”  
Stuart went red; he couldn’t help it, but he didn’t know what to say apart from: “Oh.”  
“Yeah, Oh”  
Steve drained his beer, and got up a little unsteadily, “It’s late, let’s just go to bed.” Steve added, mainly to himself.

Stuart wanted to say something else, to ask Steve what exactly he meant but his mouth dried the question in his throat. Steve quickly signed the receipt pad a waiter had left and gestured for Stuart to go first. Stuart stubbornly stayed in place, hoping to will himself into action, but he just wasn’t that guy, at least not now, maybe not ever. Steve sighed, rolled his eyes, and led the way to the lifts; Stuart stared at Steve’s back as he followed him, hating his cowardly self with every step. The ride up to their floor was a type of slow torture as Stuart edged his way slowly to Steve’s side. It took him long enough that he had only just reached Steve by the time the doors pinged open. So instead of a coolly sidling up to him, Stuart tripped as Steve left the lift, and sent them both flying onto the ugly carpet on their floor’s hallway. _Shit._

For a second, they didn’t move; Stuart laid on top of Steve, his heart hammering, hammering, hammering hard against Steve – _surely he could feel that?_ Then, Steve laughed, beautiful and low, like a far-off storm, and Stuart couldn’t help but chuckle through his embarrassment. Steve shifted underneath Stuart to right himself, just as Stuart tried to move the same way. Instead of pulling apart, they fell together again, facing each other this time, lips millimetres apart. They paused there; Steve seemed to search Stuart’s face for a clue, or permission and after catching the eager glint in Stuart’s eye, crashed their lips together. The kiss was hungry but not aggressive, passionate but still gentle with the feel of Stuart smiling through it. Their elbows were digging into the cheap fibres onto the carpet, no doubt creating painful marks but the two men didn’t seem to care, they just kept on kissing - Steve’s hand held gently to Stuart’s face as Stuart slid his arm around Steve’s waist. Stuart didn’t think he had been any happier, had felt anything better than in this moment: surely this was the peak of human existence? He thought he could stay right here forever unless-   
Stuart abruptly pulled away, holding his hand to his mouth, “Oh God.”  
Steve’s eyebrows furrowed, his deep brown eyes filling with concern, “What? What’s wrong?”  
Stuart shook his head abruptly, and pulled himself to a sitting position and then half-stumbled, half-ran up the hall to his room. He hurriedly pulled out his key card from his pocked and without even looking back at Steve, rushed inside.

Steve slowly pulled himself to his haunches, and stayed there for a minute, stunned. How could he go from pure, ecstatic happiness one second to a dark, bleak pain the next? He’d known Stuart was inexperienced, sure, nervous, maybe - but to rush off like that? Stuart must have been deeper in the closet than he thought. And yet, there was something about Stuart tonight – he had seemed… ready. And that kiss! Surely Stuart couldn’t have faked that. Steve shook his head, chastising himself for reading the signals so wrong. He wanted to shake off the whole evening, brush Stuart off as a dumb innocent boy that he had no time for. But he didn’t feel like that – not really – he felt like he had already waited years for someone like Stuart to come along, and he’d wait years more for him if he had to. _What was that?_ Steve couldn’t believe he’d fallen this hard, this quickly with someone this unsuitable - pathetic. Steve picked his sorry self up, and wandered down the corridor to his door, giving one last sad look at it before going into his room.

After Stuart had finished throwing up the Sambuca, and brushed his teeth with half a tube of Colgate, he gave himself the once over in the mirror. He didn’t look great but he certainly felt a lot better, having got the angry black alcohol out of his system – he felt clearer-headed than he had done all evening. It was dark anyway, he reasoned. He had a quick look at his room – it was messy but nothing he could do about that now: instead he turned on a lamp, straightened out his bedspread, and moved his condoms from his bathroom wash bag to his bedside table, just in case he told himself, but he knew what he was hoping for. Making sure he had his key-card with him, in case the door slammed, Stuart opened the door and leant on the frame, hoping to smoothly beckon Steve inside. Instead, Stuart found himself staring at a dark, empty hallway and his stomach dropped like the Sambuca was making a comeback. Stuart marched towards Steve’s door – perhaps he’d also had to make a dash to the bathroom? – but stopped short of knocking as it dawned on him. The three minutes he was gone was long enough for Steve to change his mind, to realise what a mistake it had been to cross the line with a teammate, or at least to cross it with Stuart. His eyes smarted as he turned back and went back to his room, kicking out angrily at the mess he found there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Took me a while but glad I finally got to this point. 
> 
> (We had to have a little bit of angst...)


	3. Penance in Perth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fallout of that night in Adelaide carries all the way through the Perth Test until the tensions come to a head and Steve and Stuart have it out.

Stuart slept badly, instead of his usual post-drinking, dead-to-the-world, passed out state. He woke with a banging head, and stared at his gaunt, pale face in the tiny bathroom mirror – _that’s what you get for getting carried away Stuart_ , he scolded himself. He had a shower but he still felt stale: _you ruined everything_ , he told himself as he let soap fall into his eyes as a strange act of self-flagellation. The tirade of self-loathing kept pulsing through his mind along with the waves of pain in his head as he dressed. He ran his hand through his wet hair as he pulled his team hoodie over his head for some sense of protection or as if that would hide him from the world.  
 _You don’t deserve to be happy_ , he said out loud as he grabbed his key card and left the room.

Steve watched Stuart shuffle sadly into the breakfast room, hood drawn up around him as if trying to shut out everyone else, or maybe just him. There were quite a few fragile looking faces around the team this morning but there was something different about Stuart’s expression, something harder. This was all the confirmation Steve needed – that was the face of a man who had more than embarrassed himself the night before, that was the face of deep regret. Steve once again tried to shrug his feelings off, emphasising the point by literally moving his shoulders up and down as if that would achieve the desired effect. Steve was much too evolved to be bothering with green, self-hating types like Stuart; he’d worked too hard on his own self-worth to be bothered with people like that.

But despite his best attempts to convince himself otherwise, he _was_ bothered. There was an unmovable sense deep in his gut that Stuart was worth the effort and Steve resented it. He bit down on his slice of toast and glared at his empty plate, and tried his best to ignore the 6’6” blonde-haired, blue-eyed presence on the other side of the room. Sometimes your head has to over-rule your heart, Steve thought, then immediately chastised himself – this was lust not love. But whether he had been thinking with his heart, or his crotch last night (or more likely, the cheap lager) that way madness lies. He had to be smarter, he had to protect himself, and that meant staying the fuck away from Stuart Broad.

It seemed like some kind of cruel, twisted answer to Steve’s prayers that later that day he ran into a downbeat Stuart coming out of the physio room as he was going in for a massage.  
Steve opened his mouth instinctively to ask what’s wrong, his heart twinging in sympathy at Stuart’s evident pain, but he stopped himself and Stuart walked straight past him, head down. Steve wandered into Mark, raising his eyebrows, and trying to appear casual as he asked, “Is Broady alright?”  
Mark flushed, not sure how much he should say, “He’ll be alright, he might have a bit of a rest, just for the next game, y’know, but he’ll be fine. Come on Steve, hop up.”  
Mark tried to swiftly move on from the subject but the message landed with Steve, he’d been on the receiving end of poorly disguised bad news enough times; the injury was not good. Poor Stuart; whatever had happened between them, his heart sank for him. It was hard seeing a fellow professional go through this, Steve told himself, that was all. Any teammate would feel the same, Steve said over and over in his head, although even in there, the tone was false, and there was a dull ache deep inside him that the massage did nothing to ease.

The sense of discomfort persisted when they flew to Perth, with Stuart glaring at everyone and everything as if it had personally affronted him, including his ticket, his bag, the overhead compartments and poor Tim Bresnan who had the audacity to try and cheer him up. The sense of ill ease remained as Steve ran through his action over and over in the nets. No matter how many times he tried to force himself to concentrate, his gaze kept lingering on Stuart who was sat scowling from the stands. Still, he was bowling well. Maybe because he had to fight so hard against his natural instincts, his focus was more intense, more absolute. Inside, he was yearning for Stuart, feeling all of Stuart’s pain and wanting to soothe it, but outwardly, he was steely, determined, ruthless. The efforts were gargantuan, exhaustive, but they were working.

But on the field, things are harder - the heat, the crowds, the pressure and still no Stuart. Steve was still taking wickets, but not cheaply, and the team were struggling to return the favour with the bat, losing their grip on their wickets far too freely, with only Straussy and Belly making it over fifty. Steve was one from one not out - he did all he could. Steve bowled tighter in the second innings, and the tree-like Chris Tremlett got a five-fer but it wasn’t enough, Steve could tell. Steve’s theory was proved sadly correct when on the morning of Day 4 he fell for just two runs and it was over. He knew the game was gone long before he came to the crease but he couldn’t help but throw his bat in frustration when he reached the changing room in a petulant move he had always looked down on batters for. When he breathed through his anger and the red mist had cleared, Steve looked up to his despondent teammates. No one was shooting daggers at him, Straussy patted him comfortingly as he passed and Matty gave him a “hard luck mate” and a shoulder squeeze; the world hadn’t ended. But it wasn’t until he found Stuart’s sparkling blue eyes that were giving him a look of sympathy that his chest began to feel light again, the look that seemed to stick together all his broken parts – _what was that?_

The thought troubled Steve long after the match debrief, the sombre bus ride back to the hotel and as he stood beneath the far too fine spray of his shower. How could one kiss linger for so long in his head? In the back of his mind he knew the answer to this, it wasn’t necessarily logical but these things never are. It wasn’t just a kiss - it was a collection of moments he and Stuart had shared; slow smiles and thirst-filled glances, charged looks and flirty banter, finding moments of touch on and off the field, holding onto each other in post-wicket celebrations long after everyone else had dispersed, firing back sledges at any slights directed at the other real or perceived, it was limbs pressed together, laughs that reached the eyes and an electrical crack in the air that all seemed to come perfectly together on that ugly hotel carpet. Until it all fell apart again. These snapshots had gone round and round Steve’s head as he stood beneath the water, hardly getting clean, and it was driving him crazy. By the time he had a towel wrapped around his waist he had decided – he couldn’t keep this up, he would have to talk to Stuart. Screw the chance of being shot down, screw the possibility of being completely humiliated by a teammate in the middle of a tour; he had to know for sure whether Stuart saw something between them, whether he felt what Steve felt. And if Stuart was scared, or needed time, that was fine, Steve had all the patience in the world. But he couldn’t go a day longer like this.

Steve had his hand on his neatly folded underwear when there was a sharp series of knocks at the door.  
“Hang on,” Steve called out, irritated that his plan to talk to Stuart was being interrupted, less because he was in a rush, more that he was worried he would lose his nerve by the time he had dealt with whoever was at his door. The knocks kept coming, loud and insistent, and the red mist came down again for Steve and he abandoned his drawers (and his drawers) and wrenched the door open, water still dripping down to the towel at his waist and face like thunder.  
“Where is the fire?” Steve demanded, as he came face to face with a bewildered Stuart who stared open-mouthed and unguarded at Steve’s bare, slick chest.

Steve blinked away his surprise, “Oh, it’s you. I mean, hi. You better come in then.”  
Stuart gulped, caught off guard, but nodded tightly and passed by Steve and into the room. Steve planned on quickly putting on at least a shirt to make things slightly less awkward but when Stuart sat down directly in front of the cupboard where all his clothes were and immediately started some sort of deep breathing exercise as if psyching himself up for something, Steve didn’t want to disturb. So, he pretended it was totally normal for him to be in a state of undress while Stuart sat there fully clothed, he feigned total nonchalance and leaned against the desk, and while Stuart was still… doing whatever he was doing, he’d start on the offensive; what Stuart had to say could wait.

But as soon as Steve opened his mouth, Stuart had clearly found his voice and once he started, he didn’t sound like he was going to stop talking or pause for breath at all, “Okay I know you’ve already changed your mind or whatever, but it was kind of now or never and I just had to know. I can’t go home tomorrow not knowing – well not knowing for sure whether – and I know I’ve not always behaved in the best way and I’m sorry but – wow, this is hard to say, I’ve never actually said this out loud to anyone, or not seriously but…“  
“Wait, you’re going home tomorrow?” Steve interjected as soon as Stuart left a small pause.  
Stuart looked up, bewildered, taking a moment to actually understand Steve’s question, and seeming to realise all over again that Steve was still wet and half-naked. He blinked rapidly, refocused, and gave a sad shrug, “Yep, the tear is bad, I can’t… so yeah rehab, it’s crap but what can you do?”  
“Oh Stu,” Steve’s voice was low and openly affectionate, and something about it made Stuart feel warm deep in his stomach where there had been nothing but pain for the last few days.  
“I’m sorry Stu, you deserve to… well I’m just sorry.”  
Steve ran out of words, injuries just sucked; they were unfair and often random and there was nothing that could make it better apart from painful rehab and time.  
“Thanks.”  
There was a brief silence as if they had both forgotten what they had wanted to talk about.

“What I wanted to say,” Stuart began again and at last seemed to find the perfect phrase to express himself, although he was blushing furiously while he spoke, “I wanted to tell you that… **I know who I am** , and what I want.”  
Steve winced, “I shouldn’t have said that to you Stuart, I’m sorry. And I shouldn’t have pushed you… being intimate for the first time, it’s a big deal.”  
“No you were right to- wait, the first…? Do you think I haven’t been with men before?”  
Now it was Steve’s turn to blush, the red spreading down his chest, “Well, I just thought…”  
“I’ve been with guys before, plenty of-well okay, not plenty, not that many really but I’m not-“  
“Well why’d you run off then? When we kissed, I thought you were freaking out.”  
Stuart closed his eyes coming to a rapid realisation, letting his head fall dramatically into his hands, how thick had they been? How stubborn. How much time had they wasted being bull-headed with each other? He laughed now but without much humour, cursing himself inwardly for the misunderstanding.  
“Stuart,” Steve prompted and Stuart suddenly remembered that Steve needed an explanation.  
“Sorry I just- this is so stupid, and also kind of disgusting and the least sexy thing I could tell you but the reason I ran off… I wasn’t scared; I was vomiting up sambuca.”  
Steve cocked his head, querying, and Stuart continued, “Call it Dutch Courage, I was working my way up to kissing you all night, got a bit carried away with Swanny and shots, and, and – I actually came back to look for you but you had gone. I thought you had changed your mind. I didn’t. Change my mind I mean. It’s not that I didn’t want you; I wanted you. I want you.”

Stuart had been speaking while staring at his palms but he finally looked up to see Steve had made his way over to him, and was standing over where Stuart was sat on the edge of the bed. Stuart slowly rose to be face-to-face Steve, fighting off a giant grin, and feeling his heart beat loud in his ears.As their eyes met, their lips centimetres apart, Steve smirked, “You didn’t kiss me though.”  
Stuart’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion so Steve repeated himself, “You didn’t kiss me, even after all that liquid courage, I had to kiss you.”  
Stuart blushed again, but fought off his feelings of self-doubt and tried to remain in the moment, “I know.”  
Steve inched even closer, moving to whisper in Stuart’s ear, “Well, we’re stone cold sober, you’re standing in my hotel room, I’m in a towel, what are you going to do?”  
Stuart didn’t need a moment to think about a course of action, or even to work up the nerve, because as soon as Steve got to the end of his sentence, Stuart reached up and took Steve’s head in both of his hands, and pulled him into a rough and ready kiss.

Stuart could feel Steve grinning hard into it, which made Stuart smile too. The kiss was surer than their last one, more confident, and they set to exploring each other easily, Stuart’s tongue moved to Steve’s lips and they parted for him. Stuart leant into Steve, deepening the kiss, and shifted his hands from Steve’s face, slowly moving them down his neck and bare shoulders and down the front of his chest. There was something liberated between them now, no secrets, just wanting each other. Steve merely held Stuart close, not wanting to push anything, but he soon realised he didn’t need to as Stuart’s hands continued to snake down, settled on the knot in his towel, and pulled until it fell to the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoyed writing this over the holidays, hope you guys like reading it! Back to work tomorrow (blergh) so may be a while before updating but we shall see.


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